Beautiful Dirtiness
- B K
- May 26, 2019
- 5 min read
One day I woke up in the heavy hot humid plug, in the Northwest coast of the island of Java. Indonesia's massive capital city; Jakarta. The city of Beautiful dirtiness is what I like to call it. Traffic, traffic and more traffic. Bumper to bumper. Motionless. Moving slower than a beetle. Every five minutes the car tires roll forward a few inches on the black cracked tar road while the air conditioner runs in cold. A toddler can crawl faster than the automobile under the hazy clogged pollution sky. With the rotten eggy smell of corruption in the air. Beautiful dirtiness. Everything must be planned a head of time. Organised chaos in the wild and unpredictable gridlocks of the tropical jungle. Nine million inhabitants. Draining out ten years of their lives in transit.
Observe, observe and observe. Stuck in an endless queue. Strange things appear out of nowhere. Beggars tap on the black tinned windows. I have no sympathy for humanity. Once you give them something, they will never leave you alone. A family of five on a bike snaked between the two lanes; The man steers the motorbike as his wife holds their baby with one arm. Their son of three years old sits comfortably in between his mother and father. The eldest child rests in front of his father with his hands placed on top of the gas tank. No helmets. They are carefree and do not waste time. Seven years instead of ten; If they are lucky enough, successful ride without a crash. Beautiful dirtiness. A rider hits the side a black Toyota. Up in the air he went and fell hard, tumbling down the road. He comes out alive and is back on his feet, cursing at the driver. Nobody seemed to care for the poor, severely malnourished dog on the side of the road, left alone to die. I cried in silence. Jakarta’s traffic is a nightmare and, sadly to admit, vastly entertaining.
Kemang is the Beautiful Dirtiness of the late-night amusement in south Jakarta. It has it all. Regardless of the two hour motionless traffic into the night to go to Star Bar. Behind the wheel, my driver cheers out loud with enthusiasm and has a borderline emotional break down after finally finishing level 147 on Angry Birds. There is no place like a good old fashioned watering hole: Star Bar.
La musique rocks, the beer is cheap, the food is tasty and all the young Indonesian waitress knew my name. They always took care of me with their soft tender touch and love. I would tell them how I wanted it and they never had complained. "You take care of me and I'll take care of you” . An agreement was made between us before the sun rose.
Walked out of the bar once the vibe turned humdrum. Enough was enough for the night. Kemang to Senayan City, fourteen kilometres seemed too far to travel to get back home. Drunk and confident I accepted an offer from a stranger in his mid-forties. He had been waiting for any drunk to walk out the thick wooden doors and he would be sitting beside his bike, ready to throttle."Saya bisa memberikan tumpangan?" He said with a smile as his eye's lit up like an excited pet to see their master. My beer-blurry eyes had noticed his missing teeth. He wants to do business with a white man. He knows he can charge me double the price compared to a local. I looked at him confused and lost in translation. I do not speak Indonesian Bahasa nor will I ever. "He can take you, no problem!" I heard Mary's (waitress) voice over my shoulder and translates his words. She has been to my castle many times in the past and loves our pool. She will never swim into the deep end.
Mr Moto convinced Mary that he knew where to go and where drop me off. I was too liquored up to worry although I fear riding a bike in this city. I had kissed Mary, my étoile good bye on her check, hoping it was not the last and away we went on the motorbike and merged into the Beautiful Dirtiness mayhem traffic.
The moment we hit the road and skidded between the cars, trucks and buses, passing on thin edge right through the pedestrians as they crossed the road. Skilfully and carefree as he revved up the throttle. He would not stop unless there was no choice. A sensational feeling of a rush ran through me as he had glided by the colourful vehicles under the street lights. My fear was blown away. A mad devil on two wheels and ready to face death. A personal accomplishment was achieved. Regardless, how close I was behind a strange man as my hands hold on his hips with a firm grip, trying to keep my chest of his back. My homophobia was smoulding up. Suddenly, the roads became very dark and unfamiliar."I think you're going the wrong way man! You missed the turn off fool" I yelled at him in a panic.
Mr Moto pulled up beside the curb after he crossed the two lanes, not even looking beside him and turned sharply towards the pavement, nearly died as he cut in front of the moving cars on his right. I was laughing my way to hell. The two of us trying to communicate with our native tongues and using mostly hand gestures. He kept shaking his head up and down,"Yes, yes, yes". He kept on repeating it to me, I believe that may be the only English word he knew. I remembered that I had made a note of my address earlier and pulled out my phone to resolve the issue. He looked at it and confusion returned to his face. He then walked over to the two men sitting on the milk crate, smoking their Gudang Garam cigarettes. I could smell the strong cloud of cinnamon clove smoke smoke drifting my way. I lit up a Marlboro and watched them point their fingers all over the thin polluted air. Beautiful Dirtiness, we were lost.
Back on the wheels, Mr Moto was sure of himself on the directions as he rode down the dark lane, blaring the engine to top speed. However, we were still on the wrong road but I left that for him to worry about. We continued to ride about two kilometres. Eventually he turned left into a tight ally way onto a path that lead towards a tropical bush, the ground was covered in gloomy brown patches. I did not like this one bit and my heart started to pound heavier when we were about to dive into the jungle. Flapping the Daun Payung's thick green leaves as we pushed right through them with no lights above, riding blind into the dark jungle. We were not alone. A chain of bikes riding in a line on the muddy dirt track. It was the only navigation tool in sight. Every rider was moving within the same direction. Some people over took us and Mr Moto had nearly lost his balance and I held on to his hips slightly tighter. Up and down we went, turn right, turn left, up and down leaning against on the sloppy hills. Splash! We hit a big puddle of mud and the brown flighty water drenched us. Covered in mud. I was not happy. Beautiful Dirtiness. The tires lost grip and we jumped off the bike and pushed it up the hill. Fifty bikes rode by us, spraying mud on our arms and faces during the on-foot battle up the hill. Back on the seat at the tip and down the steep slope, aiming towards a road at the bottom. At last, we came out of the lumpish ridge, I knew where we were and a sense of relief washed over my nerve racked body. Wet and sober, I was ready to get home for another damn drink.